


In-Flight Entertainment

by wanda von dunayev (wandavon)



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: Accidental Viagra, Airplane Sex, Banter, Drugs, F/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/pseuds/wanda%20von%20dunayev
Summary: "You know there’s a club you can join." He tries to sound smooth, seductive. His voice rasps.From beside him: "If you say ‘the mile-high club,’ Ford, I swear to God I will—""No. What? The fuck is that, an aeroplane dining group? I meant if you fuck on a plane. You can get a card and everything. Done it before, got like seven."Rick has a problem with an obvious solution.
Relationships: Susan Cooper/Rick Ford
Comments: 22
Kudos: 38
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	In-Flight Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephemeralblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralblossom/gifts).



> Thank you to [borichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borichu/pseuds/borichu) for the beta and for catching my North-Americanisms! You're the best.

By Rick’s estimation he has consumed fourteen different pharmaceuticals in the past thirty-six hours: two sedatives (generic); a handful of triangular pills of varying colours and shapes he found in his day bag; and a large, foul-smelling tablet that in retrospect may have been a veterinary suppository. During the first leg of his travel he found three crushed cigarettes at the back of his wallet, and he was too exhausted to disassemble the aeroplane toilet’s smoke detector so instead he disassembled and ate those.

He meets up with Susan in Heathrow. Even from across the airport she’s eying him, staring at his thighs and shoulders, sizing him up like she plans to take him out with a flying leap. Closer, the air between them crackles like lightning with both sexual tension and his keen awareness that she’s pissed off at him about Prague, even though he was the wronged party.

But when they’re face to face she says, “You look like shit. You look like you killed someone’s grandmother for cutting in front of you at a Golden Corral.”

He glimpsed himself in the mirrored lift coming up. This is exactly what he looks like. Susan, by contrast, is bright-eyed, wearing an unbearably touchable jumper-dress over leggings.

“Yeah?” he says, provoked by both her accurate, ungenerous assessment and her cool ease, like she’s not ruffled at all to see him. “Well, you look like a DMV officer who’s spent the entire day eating bonbons and reading about celebrity love-children.”

“Bonbons would be an improvement for you. Have you had any solid food in the past seventy-two hours?”

They’re waiting to board their last flight when Rick spots an old friend who used to inform on the Triads. While Susan is trying to figure out the sparkling water dispensers in the Terminal 2 Star Alliance business-class lounge, Rick and his friend hotbox the lavatory.

On the plane he has a black coffee. This somehow brings to mind Bradley Fine saying that he always orders the halal meal because it’s fresher, and thinking of Bradley Fine makes Rick want to open the emergency exit and jump out. Instead he drinks champagne until his vision blurs.

He’s not afraid of flying. And if he were it would be justified because of the jetliner-smashing-his-true-love thing.

He’s vaguely conscious of Susan next to him, jabbing at the entertainment screen with curt, infuriated gestures. “Christ, it’s like Oscar rejects of the eighties,” she mumbles.

She saved his life in Prague, and he thanked her profusely, on his knees and in a few other positions. Afterwards, though, she crawled out of bed, bow-legged from the earth-shattering sex they’d had, and said, “I can’t do this anymore, Rick. Sorry.”

He reaches out to stroke her face, or maybe to pick out a movie based on his thorough understanding of critical approaches to cinema. Instead he flips over his bowl of microwaved nuts. Then he blacks out.

* * *

When Rick wakes—bewildered, but fully conscious and so sober it hits him like an attack—it’s to pitch-black nighttime windows and a dim, quiet plane. Around him the entire cabin is a field of reclined seats and blankets, the other passengers unseen in their pods.

The privacy is welcome; sleep has only somewhat soothed him. His head pulses, his mouth is like sandpaper. He’s out of control, capable of anything, twitching with readiness. Which is to say, he is, at long last, Rick Ford.

To top it all off, Susan is curled against him, her hair tickling his face, and he has a throbbing erection.

He tries to shift his weight, inching away from her, but his leg jerks and he accidentally kicks her in the shin. Fortunately, he’s removed the shoe on that foot, though the other is still halfway on.

“Rick, what the fuck?” The question is muted and sleepy. “Did you just—did you kick me?” Then, after a pause, “Are you cuddling me?”

“You fucking daft? You’re cuddling me,” he says, but in a polite, indoor voice, because everyone else is asleep. She smells like some filthy dream, and it is not at all helping his prick, which twitches with insistence against his thigh. “Is that Chanel?”

“What?”

“Your perfume, you saucy minx. Chanel?”

“What? Uh, Nivea lotion.”

He tries to push her away, since he needs space to adjust himself, but instead he pushes at her tit. Her dress, as expected, is fur soft, and her breast underneath it even better. The restriction of his trousers is getting painful.

Susan shoves him off her. “Stop it, okay? We are in a public space—”

“I didn’t mean it. I can’t see properly right now, alright?” He has a floater the size of Iceland obscuring everything except the very tip of his single half-removed Alexander McQueen shoe.

“You can’t see?” Then, worried: “Are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay. This mission poses us both considerable danger.” That’s true, but it’s also not why Rick’s not okay. He calls to mind all the things that cool him off: Idi Amin, the procession of human suffering, salad bars with no sneeze guard.

But Susan is pliant and still against him, and all he can think of is her in bed in Prague, the city lights alternating blue and white on her face and her breasts, her hair a golden snarl across the pillows, and her gripping his hips between her thighs like she never wanted to let him go. Even though she did.

“Yeah,” she says, interrupting his fantasy, “well maybe we can debrief when we’re not in public on a plane, okay?”

“Get real. You need to prepare yourself, Cooper.” He says this in a low growl, because that’s the only sound that doesn’t make migraine lights coalesce in front of his eyes. “I’ve dealt with the Mafiya before. In Kostroma. The entire police force is like a bloody piece of Swiss cheese.”

Silence from Susan.

“That’s why they call them Kostromskoy Police, see? Like the cheese. Full of fucking holes.”

“I—I think they call them that because that’s the city they’re in. Kostroma. Kostromskoy.”

Susan has no respect for him. That’s why she doesn’t want him the way he wants her. The thought, coupled with his unprecedented hangover and the fact that he is so hard it genuinely hurts, fills him with bitterness.

“Oh, you know the Russian mob, do you? Full of experience? You listen to a podcast? I infiltrated an elite bear-wrestling ring in Moscow to take down an oligarch known as Lazy Boy for turning his enemies into leather couches. Smarten up.”

There’s further silence that he chooses to interpret as impressed. Then Susan says, “What?”

“You heard me. You’re going to learn fast or you’ll end up as a plush goddamned ottoman footstool.” He will never allow that to happen. He would fucking die before he let Susan become any sort of furniture, except as part of some agreed-upon kink scene. That, he thinks, would not be disagreeable.

“We’re not going to fucking Russia!” she says in a sharp whisper-yell, and it makes the entire right side of his head pound like it’s melting off his skull. “You are en route to Vancouver, in Canada. Remember? What the fuck are you talking about, Rick?”

Well, that explains why no one understands his Russian and the persistent maple-leaf iconography around him. “I was testing you. Stay sharp, Cooper. Trust no one. Everyone is a barracuda. And you are a slow-moving, juicy, succulent little morsel of fish—a carp, maybe, or a—”

“Rick, do you have a hard-on?” Her eyes are wide, staring. “I can fucking—I can feel your dick digging into my leg!”

Oh, she can feel it. Every inch of him between navel and mid-thigh is a molten, blazing ache.

“Yeah, always prepared, aren’t I? Why, you interested?”

“No!” She glances around, but even in the cabin's darkness her flush is obvious. “I’m not interested, because there are people here, Rick! Jesus!”

“But if we weren’t—”

“Stop it.” She heaps her portion of blankets over his crotch. “You’re being inappropriate. Nobody on this plane wants to see your dick. Have some dignity.”

“First of all, yes, they almost certainly do, and in fact I would wager that they account for at least a third of the people here. Secondly, please. I’ve rolled naked through the gardens of Buckingham Palace in a desperate attempt to save the Queen from an assassination attempt made with a lawnmower.”

Susan stares at him. “Why were you naked?” He starts to answer, but she cuts him off. “No. Never mind. I don’t care. Point that away from me.”

“Oh, yeah? You seemed to like that last time. Legs up over your head and all.”

“Actually, last time your legs were up over your—you know what? No. I’m not discussing this, Ford. Go the hell to sleep.”

He rolls over, too disgusted with her antics to bother arguing. Rick has people lining up around the block to get with him—literally. There is literally a waitlist, and Cooper has now lost her place at the front. By her own choice, but that doesn’t make it less outrageous and offensive and just plain bloody confusing.

There’s enough distance between them that they’re not touching, but he can somehow sense her beside him; the little shifts she gives as she burrows in, trying to get comfortable. She is—this has to be granted her—a comfortable person herself. There’s nothing harsh about Susan. She’s all give, nothing but softness and curves. Physically, at least.

“You know there’s a club you can join.” He tries to sound smooth, seductive. His voice rasps.

From beside him: “If you say ‘the mile-high club,’ Ford, I swear to God I will—”

“No. What? The fuck is that, an aeroplane dining group? I meant if you fuck on a plane. You can get a card and everything. Done it before, got like seven.”

He glances behind him to see that Susan has pulled the blankets up over her head. “Honestly, why are you like this? Do you have impulse control issues? Have you been assessed?”

“Only around you, Cooper.”

He means it as mockery, but it comes out intense and serious and full of promise. It’s like a stranger spoke, someone who is revealing all of Rick’s secrets to shame him. Someone who is sharing things Rick doesn’t know he thinks and didn’t mean to share.

She closes her eyes slowly, and he’s positive that _she_ is going to open the emergency exit.

Instead she says, “Okay. Wait ten minutes and join me in the bathroom.”

* * *

Rick wasn’t lying about his experience fucking on planes—the number may have been mildly inflated, but only a little. What he didn't tell Susan was that that experience was on private jets. On a private jet you can fuck on the floor in the aisle and nobody will do anything except look on sadly, uncomfortably, with a hand-towel ready.

On a commercial airliner you’re forced to resort to the lavatory. And this, Rick thinks as he tries to wedge himself in with Susan, is not convenient, not fun, and decidedly not sexy. There’s not a lot of room to move around, the light is horrible, and the logistics worrisome.

He contemplates calling the whole thing off, sending her out to go back to sleep and just jerking off.

Then Susan kisses him, her lips soft but insistent, her hands running over his chest, over and over like she’s reassuring herself he’s real. Her body presses against his and it is exactly as he remembers, all softness. Like in a dream where you fall and fall and land not on cement but on cloud.

When she undoes his belt, though, he’s forced to consider positioning again. “Alright,” he says, “you brace yourself on the ledge, and I’ll—”

“There’s no ledge.” Susan glances around. “There is not a single ledge in here except the sink. You mean the sink.”

“If I meant the sink, I’d have said sink, wouldn’t I?” She rolls her eyes. “Alright. Toilet, then.”

“Ew, no. Gross. I’m not sitting on the goddamn toilet. I’m not having sex on the toilet.”

This is becoming a complex and involved problem, and not one he’s confident they can fix. All their bickering is not making them any headway on the issue, and he is still hard, pressing now into Susan’s stomach.

He turns Susan with a gentle pressure on her shoulders, glancing down at the floor to check the space. “I think I can bend you over the sink”—he gives her a scathing look in the mirror—"and get in that way."

“Get in,” she repeats, sneering. “How are you going to get the right angle? You’re like eight inches taller than me. Your knees’ll be banging the wall.”

“Well, you’re the size of a penguin, so that’s not surprising.”

She opens her mouth to make some retort, looking furious. But whatever she’s going to say is cut off by a loud, insistent knocking at the door.

“Ma’am?” The flight attendant sounds concerned and also—maybe this is Rick’s paranoid, guilty conscience making him imagine things—suspicious. “Everything alright in there?”

They lock eyes. For a moment they are absolutely one in something, united, on the same side as they are in missions and nowhere else. Susan lifts a finger to her lips, and he obeys, because Crocker would absolutely make his life an unending series of torments if any whisper of this got out.

Susan says, in a convincing, sort of weak voice, “Yes, I’m so sorry. I’m just… not feeling very well.”

A brief pause. “Ma’am, do you need a doctor?”

Oh, shit. Susan’s eyes narrow, and he nods.

“No, no, it’s just my…” Her voice trails away. She visibly braces herself. “My hemorrhoids.”

 _What the fuck?_ Rick mouths. Susan’s responding look is absolutely filthy and, still maintaining eye contact, she drives the heel of her shoe into his foot. The one without the shoe. He’s left the other half-on.

Rick grunts, but quietly, since he has been trained to withstand four-hundred and nineteen forms of torture and Susan’s little footsies are not likely to break him.

There’s an awkward silence. “Oh, well, then just… please call if you need any assistance, ma’am.”

After a brief moment Susan slumps forwards, her entire body sagging, her face buried in her hands. “Oh, god, that was awful.”

“Hemorrhoids,” he whispers. “Really? Fucking… you couldn’t say it’s just bad cramps?”

She leans back a little, bringing her ass into contact with the front of his trousers. The sensation is incredible, better than anything he’s felt before because he is so pent up and so desperate. He has to clench his jaw to keep from making noise. He tightens his grip on her waist, drawing her back towards him, and rubs himself against her ass.

Her reflection’s eyebrows shoot up, but a flush creeps into her cheeks. “You’re still hard? After all that?”

He runs his hands over her shoulders, enjoying the smoothness of her jumper—it’s got to be cashmere—and she radiating warmth under it. The air on the plane is like acid, but Susan is so warm, and she smells good, impossibly, after all this travel. He presses his mouth to the skin behind her ear.

She was smart to wear a skirt. Fewer things to shift out of the way. “Yeah, I think I may have taken Viagra by mistake.”

Susan turns her head to stare at him. Her forehead is creased. “What? Why the fuck did you take Viagra, Rick? You don’t need—”

“I said it was by mistake, didn’t I? My bag’s got more loose pills in it than a chemist’s. Thought it was a painkiller.”

He tugs the hem of her dress up, caressing her thighs as he goes. She shivers, her bare skin so smooth he has to be conscious of not grabbing and hurting her.

The space is confined and he can’t get as much room to work as he’d like. But that means there’s nowhere for her to move, and she pushes back against him, her back and shoulders rubbing his chest and stomach, her ass sliding into the hollow of his hips as he braces his knees on the sink unit. She’s short enough that if he lifts his chin he can rest it on the top of her head.

Under him, under his hands, she’s melting, going limp and boneless. “And you just—you took the random pills? That’s really dangerous.”

“I’m a dangerous man, Cooper. Get it through your skull, will you?”

He bends forwards, pressing her with his weight, grinding his length against the crack of her ass. Her eyes flutter shut in the mirror, but her face screws up further, like she’s trying to keep her focus. It’s good, a blessing and a relief, but not enough. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like any of it is enough.

“Is your dick going to fall off?” Her voice is a horrified whisper.

“Not bloody likely. I’m used to reduced blood flow in most parts of my body since I was hogtied in various demeaning positions inside a Yakuza spider tank.”

“What?” Susan doesn’t open her eyes, but her face twists more.

“You heard me.” She starts to turn, her muscles no longer as loose, so he holds her tight to him. Her breasts brush his arms, and his skin fucking tingles. “We should probably get this done, though, just in case. While the sun shines make hay, and all that.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She sneaks a look up at him. “No kissing, remember.”

He yanks her leggings and knickers down, baring her ass. He’s barely touching her yet, but when he slips his hand between her legs she’s dripping wet. Her mouth opens in an ‘o’, forehead creasing. He watches her in the mirror, pleased and smug and maybe—maybe—a little amazed and grateful. A hot blush has spread up her neck to her cheeks and her forehead, a glowing pink that makes her look almost innocent. Like she’s not just about to get ridden in a semi-public space.

She must feel his gaze, because she turns and presses her face into her forearm.

“Good girl.” He manages to open his trousers with one hand and frees himself. He’s leaking wet, swollen and purple. When he guides himself to her entrance the touch of her against him is almost too intense, verging on pain.

Her eyes open when he thrusts inside her, and he has to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her groan. He pulls out slowly, savouring every sensation, every little shudder she gives around him. She’s as good as he remembers, eager and pushing back against him.

Even as she meets his next thrust she draws away from his hand, biting her lip. A clear message: _I don’t need you. I can be quiet myself._

And sure, she can. But he looks out for her. And it’s always so much better together.

He keeps the pace slow, partly because he’s concerned that the flight attendant is hovering just outside trying to get an earful, and partly because he’s concerned that if he brings his full skillset to bear Susan will get loud and wake up the entire plane.

And, partly, sliding into her is astonishing, toe-curling, and even though his medically induced erection is not likely to go away soon, he still doesn’t want to rush this. These moments together are intoxicating, precious. His skin is hot all over, tingling and hypersensitive. Like even in this disgusting rubbish aeroplane lavatory made for men under six feet tall he’s having the sort of sex people dream of, wet and dirty and frantic.

Unbelievable that Bradley Fine declined this. _Beverly, you fucking twat. Your loss, my gain._

It’s hard to get a good angle, and eventually even his experienced knees ache with each collision against the sink. But Susan clings to his wrists, holding him in place, twisting her hips a little every time he slides inside her.

He drops a little lower, which his knees detest, and his thighs are bouncing against the toilet seat now. Not an appealing thought. But she’s gasping and squirming, her legs shaking. “Oh, fuck, yes. There. There.”

He keeps going until she tenses with an almost pained whisper, long past the point when both his knees and thigh throb like they’ve been pounded to mush. No one has ever accused him of being a selfish lover. If fifteen Mafiya _vory_ poured into their toilet-wardrobe right now, Rick doesn’t think he’d stop for them. He and Susan are the only people in the world, the only people in the plane, sealed into their own private bliss which is, incidentally, shaped like an aeroplane lavatory.

He slows as she does, giving her time to regain herself. Her hair is fluffed from sleep and sex, and his caresses muss it even worse.

Susan wipes a smear of lipstick from her face. “God, okay. Okay, Rick. I’m consistently surprised to find an area in which you are not just talk.”

It’s a compliment, but a backhanded one. He refuses to be put off by it. “You’re as outstanding a fuck as you are unorthodox a spy.”

“That’s actually… really nice of you.”

“Hm.” He leans forward, kissing the back of her head—not a violation of their no-kissing rule in letter, though perhaps in spirit. “The spy part wasn’t meant to be nice. The fuck part was.”

Susan shifts a little. He can’t help but shut his eyes.

When he opens them, she’s giving him a questioning look.

“What, you didn’t finish?” she says.

“Having a bit of trouble, yeah. Medically speaking.”

She bites her lips and glances at the door. “I mean, people are going to get suspicious.” But she’s wavering, already starting to move atop him.

“Yeah, well—” He grunts when she bears down hard.

“Okay, listen, one more go. And if that doesn’t do it, you can try jerking off with the complimentary hand lotion.”

It’s not the most romantic offer he’s ever had, but he’ll take it. For now, though, Susan grinds into his hips like she’s bound and determined to hang on to yet more travel-size toiletries.

“Well,” he says, laying a hand on the small of her back. “Turns out those _issues_ of yours are vexatious and hard to get rid of.”

“Just like you, Ford.” She snaps her hips backwards, and for a moment his vision wavers and goes black and yellow-white. “Vexatious and hard to get rid of.”

* * *

Nobody accosts him when he slips out a few minutes after her. By the time he gets back to their seats she’s already sprawled out under her blanket, still as if asleep.

But when he slides into his own seat, she reaches over the divider and takes his hand. He lies there for a long moment, just touching her, thinking about how soft her skin is for a woman he’s seen roundhouse kick two men at once.

Then he squeezes her hand, and, still holding it, falls asleep.


End file.
